


Infect my mind

by kid_n_the_hall



Series: Eros harrows my heart [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Jack pov, Reunion, fluffy feels, rambles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 00:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8868385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kid_n_the_hall/pseuds/kid_n_the_hall
Summary: Being spun by a tornado enough and you still feel the wind humming under your skin, in your veins, even after it's long gone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously there were Jack's perspective on things too. Or it came to be when hubby sang the quoted Ed Harcourt song to me (She fell into my arms), and then long sleepless nights without wifi meddled.

_Well there's a thousand things I shouldn't do_

_But if I do them I should them with you_

_So won't you fall into my arms again_

_And hold me for the world may end_

_//_

The crack, minuscule at first, appeared the first time I bumped into her in the sickly, milk and custard coloured bathroom in the Andrew's residence. For every subsequent time I got nudged by or tumbled through the small tornado that she is, it grew, a little more light seeping in. Disturbing my order of ways, chafing, challenging. She subtly broke me, dislodging little pieces now and then, allowing me to reconstruct myself slightly. A launch of a slow catharsis.

//

I am a serious man. Sensible. I don't do rash. I do deliberate and careful. But how sensible can one be without missing opportunities that requires risk taking? How much careful can one do before ones heart dries up and withers anyway? I'd rather have it devastated by her hands. I reached that conclusion some months back, it had been once, and I realised the prospect of it happening again was preferable to the opposite. So I slowly began to dismantle my walls, let her disturb the breach once more. When I held her at arm's length, maybe I did bend my elbow a little more. I didn't only agree to this dance we found us occupied with, I took the lead on occasion. And now, just at the cusp of what I thought to be a beginning, it twisted to stare back at me much like an ending.

//

I have barely slept, just dozed off mere minutes.

I sat in my chair clinging to my whisky, debating whether to go to her or not. She would need her sleep, I needed to see her. One last time. But what good could come from it? It eventually got too late, but I remained in my suit in my chair. As if tomorrow wouldn't come if I didn't go to bed. Not as soon anyway. And how do you sleep when your mind is whipped about by this violent whirling?

Perhaps it's just the sleep deprivation talking or the whisky, either way I listen. I get up, put on a tie, get my coat and her fedora and leave.

It wasn't too late. It was like a wistful movie that will roll in my head endlessly. She's sitting in that tiny plane. Maybe it's just a figment of my imagination but I swear I could see the exact moment she saw the car, and she lit up the whole damn field and I think it bruised my heart. I'm not a man of grand gestures, but there I was, running to her, in yesterday's all wrinkled up clothes, without a plan. I always have a plan. And this after I've driven the _police motorcar_ like a...well, like her. She runs too. This is not such stuff my life is normally made on.

Oh. The swallow pin. Things I can't remember are being said, the only thing that reverberates is ”Come after me, Jack Robinson”. So I did. I didn't know I had it in me to kiss like that, it was clear she didn't either, she allows herself to be kissed longer than I expected before she answers.

When we part she looks astray and in love, which could be enough to dismiss this scene as a dream when one ponders that this is Phryne Fisher. But it is what it is. Love. And true at that.

One could think her brash remark would make this moment lose validity, strangely it only reassures me it's Phryne being who she is, impossible, vexing, incredible. And that she too is trying to deal with this shift. I'm confident she will catch up. I watch the tiny plane getting smaller, the ache in me increasing.

//

Being spun by a tornado enough and you still feel the wind humming under your skin, in your veins, even after it's long gone.

//

I'd like to claim I go about my life as usual after she's left, maintaining my composure. Which I don't. I get moods, I bark at constables annoyingly behaving much like puppies, I eat too little, drink a little too much. Not all is bad though, I read more. I think of what would've piqued her deductive senses, what would've made her laugh. Sharing observations or aim for banter with any random person is a waste of time. My quip-and-wit-scale is still calibrated after someone else. Someone who shared the appreciation and reciprocated the dry humour and sassy sarcasm with similar vigour. Who matched my references, paraphrased or not, called them and raised me. Who always had a blue chip up her sleeve. I miss her. Terribly.

//

A lonely telegram awaits me on my desk at City South one morning. It's sent from Istanbul.

THE EUROPEAN CURRICULUM HOLDS LITTLE APPEAL

THE MELBOURNE ONE IS FAR SUPERIOR

P

I don't get much work done for the next couple of hours. Instead of lunch I down a whisky, place some phone calls, call in some debts, make arrangements. After a second whisky I buy a ticket.

” _True love must never be denied, Detective Inspector”._

Well. It seems like I'm pursuing it now.

//

I thought days on end at sea would leave me bored beyond my wits or overthinking my decision. I may overthink, but not my decision, it's been made. I think of her though, of us, in ways I haven't let myself explore too thoroughly before. I consider this some sweet purgatory, the waiting, the suspense. I'm impatient but not anxious, antsy but not worried. Which is strange, I usually worry much more. This man of not so grand gestures is now making the possibly grandest gesture of them all. And all for a woman who's highly suspicious of love and romantic commitments, rather ironic. There will be concessions I'm sure, she'll probably find most endearments evasive and she'll crave her independence, but that is so much the essence of her, I can't argue with that.

Mostly I'm content, I enjoy the silence, I read, I wallow in poems. I write her letters, mostly ones she'll never read, dissecting my feelings and fears. I try and reason with this love that has fallen upon us. It will have none of that, so I retire to what option there is. Surrender.

//

Two, three deep breaths before I get ready to disembark, and a brief mental image of a gladiator entering an arena. Another deep breath and I step on the gangplank. When I spot her in the crowd and our eyes meet, she wears the same look as after our kiss. It settles in my gut that this is right, this will be worth it. Whatever awaits down the road, no one can ever steal this moment. I've never seen her smile like this, a man could get hubris for less I reckon. I decide to tease her, a small return for all the taunting she's done and will do, and greet her like this is just another crime scene she's intruding on. My face however deems that to be silly business and have me bursting at the seams with smiles. And if this isn't the moment to call her Phryne, when is?

I'm rewarded with an armful of vibrating, breathless anticipation, a nose of ice on my neck and mumbled sentiments in my ear I'm quite sure she's not fully aware she's voicing. The traces of tornado in my cells are awakened by their source, my whole body's singing.

//

The giddy potential in the cab is palpable, she's practically oscillating. I'm amused by her silence and her obvious strain from, something, her nerves? Barely knew she had any. Phryne Fisher, stunned and tentative, quite the sight. The woman who never backed down from a stare down, can't look at me. So I seize my chance to observe a Miss Fisher as still as she ever will be, it's rather torturous to be this close but not yet able to touch. Perverted as I am from years of immaculately groomed self-restrain I enjoy it. I indulge myself in blatant admiration of her physical assets, and it has me feeling, well _naughty_ makes me sound like teenaged boy. Suitable though, sometimes under her influence I am nothing else. I imagine her hair gliding through my fingers, what her neck will taste like, what sound she will make when I kiss her breasts, the downy weight of them in my palms. I can make out their contour under sheer purple fabric, disappearing under cream silk. Outside it's wet, grey and cold, autumn on the verge of winter, and in the seat next to me, paradise. I can almost feel her skin under my fingertips, I wonder how the muscles along her spine will ripple when she arches her back in pleasure. Her lithe, fierce legs, squeezing around my hips, her arms around my shoulders. Soon. I turn ever so little towards her, her breath hitches. I reach for her hand, can't not touch her any longer, I feel her pulse racing, tracing soothing little circles with my thumb on her wrist.

I find myself being positively dragged through the hotel to her rooms. Her enthusiasm is the most arousing thing, and before the door to the suite is fully closed I kiss her, I can't stand another second not kissing her. I wish I could muster up some finesse but there is only need, and she answers so keenly, moaning, so I can't really be bothered.  
One minute. One minute I've been in her room before we fall onto the bed and I start to undress her. And the old me, or the me I still maybe am, but not with her and not when I have _ached_ for her for months, would have wanted to talk first, set things straight, done what ever it is you do when you're close to forty and supposedly sensible. But your body doesn't care and is on an adolescent rampage. And you're completely desperate for her, those sloppy kisses igniting a line of gunpowder burning faster than you can think. It burns, flames consuming all sense. I tug at her blouse, pushing it up, stroking her skin, wanting to curl up just below her sternum. I kiss every little inch of her lovely belly, she's ticklish along her ribs. I all but rip off buttons, discarding garments over my shoulder.

I think about my _first_ first time. How eager I was, how naïve. I'd tried to do some research, tried to investigate, but with evidence that was anecdotal at best, I was left somewhat unsatisfied. The girl too I dare say. The research is a little easier when you know the basics. Also easier, and uh more explicit, when you're the one confiscating banned books. Being careful and methodical has it's uses, one can come up with quite the plan during a sea voyage to London. Several plans even. Her past, should it be intimidating? Perhaps it is, but I can't hear that over the yearning that is roaring in me.

We're lost in familiar movements and caresses but with new responses and reactions so intense I wonder how I will get any work done ever again? Where would I possibly want to be other than here, our bodies entwined, naked and fitting so beautifully together. How have I managed without the knowledge of her taste? The revelation that I recognise the scent of _her,_ that I've sensed it before mingled with her perfume is almost enough to send me over.

Our eyes lock, my heart stops, _god I love her_ , then I see this fluttering in her eyes, it's beginning to dawn on her now, she's falling. I give her some respite, concentrating on how perfectly her breast fit in my hand, how I need to kiss her more, be inside her, how ethereal her skin looks with those tiny beads of sweat.

After a stumbling confirmation that a non-spider-abused-diaphragm is in place, I sink into her and a prickly whirring twists my spine and then spreads through my body to linger on my skin. An obscene grumble vibrates in my chest and the disbelief is back, how is it possible to feel this? This is so very far from our waltz through crime scenes, manila folders and parlours and yet the same. Same rhythm, same tune, same teamwork. I recognise my own tension in her and with some hushed words into her hair and determined fingers elsewhere, we soon reach our peaks, collapsing in between tangled sheets. I am, to say the least, overcome. Phryne stares back at me, searching for something, kisses me and cries into my neck, and still my heart doesn't burst. I'd like to say something, anything, but I've decided I won't lead on this, and what would one say anyway, what words would suffice when your world has upended itself but you're still safe and sound because you're in her arms?

//

Someone's knocking, I'm in a bed that's not moving. I should be in London, but she's not here? I decide trousers to be a good idea even if I'm still sleeping. I let in a wrecked Phryne, agitated to a point not far from actually throwing her shoes at me. My confusion's wearing off. Oh, love, it's harsh this, trying to make sense of things beyond logic. So she fled but came back to me, still forging forward. That's all I need to know. I'll be her rock, her pillar. I'm thinking it's not that bad being the one ahead for once when she barrels past me again, saying she loves me. Touché.

Impossible woman.

 


End file.
